


Enjambment

by thingswithwings



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Flirting, Foot Fetish, Footsie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-11
Updated: 2007-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:31:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First of all, Rodney thinks that it’s an accident; secondly, he thinks it’s Zelenka (at first); and in the third place, he doesn’t think anything of it in the first place, or at least, not until the second time it happens.  Which is to say, nothing happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enjambment

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a DVD extra/deleted scene from the [New Atlantean Dictionary of Literary Terms](http://archiveofourown.org/works/258436/chapters/403580); this didn't fit into that story, but stands on its own nicely, I think.

First of all, Rodney thinks that it’s an accident; secondly, he thinks it’s Zelenka (at first); and in the third place, he doesn’t think anything of it in the first place, or at least, not until the second time it happens. Which is to say, nothing happened.

The big meetings are supposed to be held once a month, but given the usual disasters, they’ve been averaging every two months at best. All the department heads and the sub-department heads and the administrators and anyone with a convincing proposal all stuffed into the conference room at once, along with, when possible, a live video feed from Earth in Dolby Surround Sound. The room is unbearably hot, even with the slatted doors open to the control room; what’s worse, because everyone wants to be seated around the table rather than against the wall, they’re packed together pretty tightly. It took twenty minutes and three specialists in geometric topology to get them packed in like this, so once they’re settled, there’s no possible solution if someone’s left-handed elbow is in your right-handed way, or if someone’s head is obstructing your view of a powerpoint presentation, or if, for example, someone’s foot is

Kicking you in the shin.

Not precisely kicking, though.

Rodney’s had the misfortune, this time, to get stuck with the very corner, the sharp jut of the triangular table poking into his stomach. At first, he’d tried to balance his laptop precariously on the little slice-of-pie bit of table he’d been granted, but after repeatedly knocking it into his own lap, he’d given up, much to the approval of his tablemates. Radek and Miko are on his left, Sheppard and Lorne on his right. Without his laptop, he can’t even play solitaire to pass the time, so his eyes are fixed on the woman talking about soybeans and his attention is fixed on the weird pinkish mark on her neck – is it a birthmark? A long-since-healed animal bite? A badly-removed tattoo? Rodney constructs increasingly elaborate and unlikely explanations for it – when someone’s foot brushes the back of his pantleg.

It’s not that someone touches him; it’s that someone shifts in such a way that he – it can’t be Miko, she’s too far and her legs are too short to reach him – moves the loose cuff of his trousers, which in turn brushes against his skin where his sock has fallen down.

He doesn’t notice, except in retrospect when it happens a second time. On the second pass, Rodney realises that it’s not Zelenka, as it’s coming from the wrong direction, and despite Radek’s dubitable claim that he was once an Olympic gymnast, Rodney doubts that he bends that way. Which leaves Sheppard or Lorne.

Probably Sheppard. For someone who ostensibly has military training, the man cannot sit still. Not that Rodney himself is a big fan of being motionless and quiet while someone talks about soybeans, but past experience has proven that the more you fidget, the more you find yourself accidentally rubbing against your sweaty colleagues, which leads not only to unsanitary conditions, but also, inevitably, to a certain kind of misunderstanding. Better to not move, to count twin primes in your head, to just breathe and think about blue skies until you can leave.

Except, of course, this plan is easily shot to hell if someone else violates the rule against fidgeting. It’s not unsanitary in this case, just a brushing against the back of his leg, only rarely making direct contact, but Rodney does find himself being led to that certain kind of misunderstanding.

It’s not constant. It lacks rhythm. It lacks predictability. Just, every now and then, a soft motion. Sometimes he feels it, and sometimes he suspects himself of only imagining that he feels it, because he’s anticipating it, and because sometimes the touch is so soft and so indirect that it’s hard to know that it was there at all. He tries counting the seconds between . . . incidents. Two seconds, three seconds, five seconds, seven seconds (primes), then two seconds, then six seconds, then thirty-three seconds, then one hundred and twenty-four seconds, then three seconds, then thirteen seconds, then seventy seconds, then, god, five hundred and twenty-two seconds, and Rodney gives up on the pattern.

At any other meeting, in any other situation, he’d poke Sheppard in the arm and tell him to quit it – he’s almost sure it’s Sheppard, now, Sheppard moving around without care or consciousness of the people around him, typical – but somehow the big town-hall meetings don’t allow Rodney his usual interruptive bluster. It’s hot, and silent except for the drone of the voice still discussing soybeans, and the bright afternoon sun streams in the windows and marks its presence on Rodney’s back, prickling his neck with sweat. To his left, Radek shifts in his seat and suddenly his forearm rubs against Rodney’s, the fine hairs scratching slightly against his flesh, the solid press and slide of skin and sweat a shocking contrast

To the slow, ghostly motion that teases the back of his right calf.

Radek shifts again to put a few millimetres of space between them, but Rodney still feels the heat coming off of his skin. A heavy, military-issue boot presses against the back of his leg, solidly for once, finally, the top of the toe pushing briefly against him, then withdrawing.

Birthmark is finally done with her report, so Elizabeth takes over and introduces the next report, which is being given by Ronon. Rodney’s attention is momentarily diverted from the goings-on beneath the table. Ronon’s never done this before, and had confessed to the team that he was nervous about it – a first, as far as Rodney’s concerned, given the man’s usual confidence and self-possession. After watching so many other presenters, Rodney almost expects Ronon to follow suit, to put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and whip out a laser pointer, but instead he just begins talking calmly about Wraith deployment tactics in the same low, rumbling voice that he uses when discussing food, or killing things. Rodney feels absurdly proud, and a little closer to Ronon, even though he doesn’t feel any closer to caring about Wraith deployment tactics.

Sheppard’s foot is motionless during Ronon’s report. As far as Rodney knows.

When the next report begins – bacteriology, and Rodney wishes desperately to have his laptop in his hands, considers playing prime-not-prime with himself – Sheppard starts up again.

So it’s deliberate. Or maybe not. Maybe Sheppard is just fidgeting, and was interested in what Ronon had to say, and managed to sit still for ten minutes. There’s a light, unpredictable brush of Sheppard’s booted foot against Rodney’s clothed leg.

Then, without warning, a second firm touch: Sheppard’s leg

Twines around Rodney’s, the back of his calf sliding along Rodney’s shin. He blinks with surprise, shifting automatically in his chair, even though there’s nowhere to go and he ends up once more getting a bit too intimate with Radek’s right side.

Sheppard hasn’t moved, yet. His leg remains wrapped around Rodney’s, warm and insistent.

Carefully, slowly, Rodney tenses the muscles of his leg and presses back against Sheppard.

It’s at that moment that Elizabeth calls intermission, a fifteen minute break that inevitably takes about forty-five minutes to complete, given that they’ll have to get themselves wedged back into their seats again.

Rodney meets Sheppard’s eyes nervously, but the man is inscrutable, giving him a normal, pleasant nod of the head before making his way over to Ronon to ask a question about hive ship maneuverability.

“What’s up with you?” Radek asks, showing up suddenly in Rodney’s peripheral vision. God, he hates it when Radek does that.

“Nothing! Why would anything be up?” Rodney answers irritably as he pours himself another cup of coffee.

“Okay, never mind. You just look a little red, is all.”

“It’s hot in here,” Rodney answers curtly, and goes to stretch his legs on the balcony.

When he comes back in to the conference room, Lorne has unthinkingly taken the chair next to Rodney’s. Sheppard is still on the other side of the room, talking to Ronon.

Sheppard, finally coming back to his seat, takes Lorne’s chair without comment. The rest of the meeting passes without incident.

-

After the meeting, Rodney half-expects Sheppard to come to his quarters, to make a pass or something, but he never does. Two weeks go by without Sheppard doing anything out of the ordinary, though, and Rodney’s ready to chalk it up to his imagination, or the enforced close quarters of the big meeting. Sheppard was probably just stretching. In their regular meetings, they each get their own side of the conference table, a yawning gap of insurmountable space stretching between them. Rodney tries to put the idea out of his mind.

Then, on M1X-1B7, they’re invited to dinner, and Rodney is seated next to Sheppard at a low table. There’s not a lot of room, and in trying to shift his legs around to get comfortable, his calf rubs a long, firm trail against Sheppard’s.

Next to him, Sheppard looks up sharply, then coughs to hide his surprise. Rodney pulls his leg back immediately, but between the appetizers and the main course, something occurs to him.

And so he begins to brush his foot casually against Sheppard’s ankle. Not often, not in any kind of rhythm or pattern, but continually, and a little too closely to be mistaken for stretching or shifting in his seat.

As the final cheese course is served, Rodney wonders whether he’s made an error. Surely, if Sheppard wanted to – to, play footsie with him, he would’ve responded by now? Maybe he’s embarrassed, and just being polite. Rodney begins to draw his leg back into his own space.

Then: for the first time, his bare warm skin against Sheppard’s. Their ankles are rubbing together – Sheppard is rubbing their ankles together – and the sensation of skin

Pressing directly against skin

Is shocking after all those careful, light touches.

They keep their ankles pressed together through the end of the meal. Afterwards, when they stand up, Rodney looks Sheppard in the eye, and this time, he’s anything but his usual self. Instead, he's smiling that slow, I-have-a-secret smile of his, his teeth flashing from between his lips. The tops of his ears are slightly pink. Rodney wants to touch them.

“I think I’m going to go to bed,” Rodney announces, feeling his own cheeks flush. As he goes by, he lets his hand brush against Sheppard’s, casually running their fingers together.

Sheppard follows him back to the guest house.

-

It’s almost three months before they manage another monthly meeting. This time, Rodney gets there early (though not as early as Ambrose, who looks like he camped out overnight with a _Star Wars_ novel to keep him company) and makes sure to get a seat that isn’t on the corner of the table.

A half-hour later, Sheppard plunks down in the chair next to him.

“Thanks for saving me a seat, Rodney,” he drawls companionably.

“Anytime,” Rodney answers, his eyes on his laptop screen.

Beneath the table, their legs twine together easily.


End file.
